After life's fitful fever he sleeps well. Treason has done his worst. Nor steel nor poison, malice domestic, foreign levy, nothing can touch him further.

O me, you juggler, you canker-blossom, you thief of love!

I am but mad north-north-west. When the wind is southerly, I know a hawk from a handsaw.

Time's the king of men; he's both their parent, and he is their grave, and gives them what he will, not what they crave.

When lenity and cruelty play for a kingdom, the gentler gamester is the soonest winner

Who riseth from a feast With that keen appetite that he sits down?

Smooth runs the water where the brook is deep.